


Fractures

by Anuna



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: 30 Days of Smut Challenge, Angst, Character Study, F/M, Identity, Introspection, Mention of scars, Plot What Plot, things i've been headcanoning about since the second season, two people representing each other's humanity, two sides of the same coin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-27 00:43:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5027107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuna/pseuds/Anuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there was no Ward, maybe she would still be just Skye, just a girl who can decipher the language of computers and make sharp tongued remarks.</p>
<p>aka - how they irrevocably changed each other</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fractures

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaptainSummerDay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSummerDay/gifts).



> This is the fic i've been wanting to write since forever. 
> 
> Prompt used: mirror (thanks to [little_angry_kitten18](http://archiveofourown.org/users/little_angry_kitten18/pseuds/little_angry_kitten18) who inspired me by using this same prompt. )
> 
> Dedicated to [CaptainSummerDay](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSummerDay/pseuds/CaptainSummerDay) who is responsible for at least half of headcanons that I have. *hugs*

 There's a vanity in the corner of the room and enough lights coming through the street facing window that allow her to see herself in the mirror. Skye isn't sure why Ward keeps it there until she reaches it and finds a first aid kit on it. Not a bad idea if you don't really trust anyone to stitch you up, she thinks. Something inside of her chest tugs.

 

Trust, she thinks and looks at her naked body. And stitches.

 

There are two gunshot wounds in the middle of her solar plexus. The plan was to make her life leak out of her grasp slowly, and for her to feel it, each little drop slipping away trough the fingers pressed against the wound. One man fired the shots, the other ordered it, and she blamed the third.

 

(The one sleeping in a bed behind her.)

 

She repaid each bullet hole in double. The fact that he's still alive is more due to his discipline and self preservation training than him being smart enough not to trust her.

 

Because he did trust her.

 

Just like she trusted him, then. And what he did, what he turned out to be, tore her apart.

 

 

 

She looks at her scars, like two pale flowers of death spreading just below her breasts. She knows Garrett gave the order. She knows Grant had nothing to do with them. And yet, Grant is the person she can't seem to forgive – or maybe doesn't want to consider the possibility that she _would_ forgive him if she allowed herself.

 

Shouldn't there be more scars? Shouldn't there be traces on her skin where his betrayal clawed into her and left her shattered? How come she can't see the aftermath of destruction written in her skin?

 

(Because it hurt worse than two gunshots in the gut)

 

Where is the damage he keeps doing to her? She looks at herself, naked, pale, with hipbones sticking out more than they ever did – because she doesn't eat properly and doesn't sleep enough and works way more than she should. (And this girl isn't pretty. Not any more.) She looks at the hair missing around her shoulders, the phantom pain left over from a girl who used to laugh and trust and _believe_.

 

She senses him waking up more than she hears him, because his vibrations change. If there was no Ward, maybe she would still be just Skye, just a girl who can decipher the language of computers and make sharp tongued remarks.

 

He stirs and sits up. She can see him in the mirror, see the reflection of the lamplight on his naked chest as it rises and falls and vibrates with panic. Until he spots her.

 

The relief that washes over him is like a physical punch to her.

 

If there was no Ward there wouldn't be the conversation by the punching bag, no warm eyes and steady hands telling her that she could be a good fit if she just worked hard for it, that good heart and dedication were what mattered; there would be no hope in her chest blooming inches away from his fingertips when they kissed on the couch inside an underground base hidden by the snow.

 

Skye breathes in and watches him get up and walk towards her, as naked as she is. He comes near her with his exposed right side and the scar she left there. And it baffles her that he still lays himself bare before her, risking an opportunity of being harmed by her again.

 

Like he doesn't mind her claws sticking into the fiber of his being and leaving both visible and invisible fractures wherever she can reach.

 

Maybe he does it because he deserves it. Ward kisses her bare shoulder with his fingers entwined in her hair. Skye dismisses the thought because there is no guilt in his features. He presents himself to her just as he is – terrible and honest and deserving of her judgment. His free hand cups her breast and she sighs. She can evoke vibrations in any object or a person, but Ward can do the same to her and as she tilts her head to meet his open mouth she realizes that without Ward there would be no Skye – no Daisy – and that his darkness slips through her cracks and tells her that she is a person who claws and hurts and marks, intentionally, hurtfully and out of spite.

 

And he still comes to her, figuratively and literally naked, and accepts her, as terrible as she can be.

 

She opens her mouth to the kiss and feels him touching everywhere he can reach. His fingers slip between her legs and she whimpers, wet and tight and aching. He pushes her forward towards the mirror and then pulls at her hips, her ass towards his crotch. She feels him slipping inside and watches how his face changes, feels how he holds his breath, feels how every fiber in his body comes alive and on fire because of her. They fuck and she watches, acutely aware of every sensation, realizing that she sets his world alight, that the power she wields over him is bigger and more frightening than she imagined. He bows over her to make sure she's touched in all the right places, to fuck her as hard as she demands. She grips the edge of the wooden surface and tilts her hips and asks him to look at her, at her reflection as she slips her hand between her legs to touch herself. She comes to her fingers and the feeling of him inside and the expression of bliss on his face. After, he fucks her until he's done and spent and Skye doesn't want him to move, or his hands to leave her hips, or him to leave her body.

 

Because he's irrevocably entwined with her, and somehow it makes everything better and worse at the same time.

 

And she doesn't want to think about it. She can't. And she can't stand the thought of him moving away.

 

(If he does, maybe all her cracks would start bleeding anew.

 

Maybe his will as well, and that scares her even more.)

 

She could pull him apart, string for string.

 

He holds her upright, trusting her that she won't.

 

Maybe it's just that – the fact that there's enough of something in him that makes him trust her so much.

 

Maybe that kind of belief isn't something she's allowed to shatter.

 

She turns around and sits on the vanity, her legs spread and inviting. She pulls him in for a kiss and he's breathless.

 

“Fuck me again,” she demands.

 

He does.

 

* * *

 

 

_Love is giving someone the ability to destroy you but trusting them not to. -_ unknown 


End file.
